


In Vino Veritas

by Iocane



Series: The Tales of Greg and Molly-Girl [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Discussion of various men, F/M, Fibbing Mrs. Hudson, Mrs. Hudson builds ships in her spare time, Mrs. Hudson has something of a past!, Sleepy Greg, Tipsy Molly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-24
Updated: 2013-04-24
Packaged: 2017-12-09 09:19:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/772561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iocane/pseuds/Iocane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wherein Mrs. Hudson gets Molly drunk, lies to a policeman, builds a ship ... and then something explodes upstairs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally from a kink meme prompt that asked for Mrs. Hudson getting Molly drunk and a stream of conciousness sort of rant. The Greg/Molly preshippyness is all me. Me, and that look he gave her at the Christmas party.
> 
> Betaed, as is most of my stuff by the FANTASTIC [ ShortlockHolmes](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ShortlockHolmes)! Seriously, before he got ahold of it, there were clumpy paragraphs all over the place, and just loads of awkward bits. 
> 
> Any remaining / new mistakes are, of course, entirely my own, because I'm the sort of idiot who makes changes after the beta reader goes over it.

"I just want to open his head and take out his brain," Molly said with a tipsy little giggle.

"Who is this now, dear?" Mrs Hudson asked, her voice a bit more steady than Molly's as she poured a dash more alcohol into the girl's glass. It was a testament to her time with Her Boys that she didn't bat an eyelash at this seemingly grotesque desire.

"Sherlock. He's got such a funny brain, the way it works. I see a lot of brains and they're all the same. Sometimes I think he hasn't got a brain, not like us. Everyone else has shriveled little grey brains, but he'd have…" Molly swayed a little, then her mind caught up with her. "A blue brain! A blue brain like his blue scarf!"

Mrs Hudson chuckled, of course it would be Sherlock. Like so many things, Sherlock was the reason she (Molly) was here, in Mrs Hudson's sitting room. Molly had apparently stopped by to deliver some – well, Mrs Hudson wasn't going to think about what the poor girl had been delivering. But Sherlock had been rude enough to her that Mrs Hudson could hear the shouting, even over her telly.

As expected, Molly had been near-tears when Mrs Hudson emerged and ushered her back towards 221A.

Molly was a sweet girl, if a bit shy. They'd met at a time not unlike this one, Molly coming by to bring unsavory things to Sherlock. The weather had been abominable and Mrs Hudson was admittedly a little starved for female company – Mrs Turner had been away visiting her granddaughter and new great-grandson for two weeks. Molly had only stayed a little while then, but the two had got on rather well.

Over the next few visits, she'd learned that Molly is really as quiet as she seemed, until she got a little drink in her. Her favorite is the cherry liqueur John had given Mrs Hudson for her birthday, it comes in a very pretty curved bottle, and the label isn't in English. John informed her a friend of his had sent it from Afghanistan at his request.

"He is rather fond of that scarf," Mrs Hudson said when she realized that Molly had stopped talking. "Looks quite lovely in it, too!" she said with a little nudge at the girl. While she didn't think of Her Boys like that, she wasn't dead! She had a mother's fondness for their looks, and they were a handsome pair!

"He's too cold for me," Molly said, which surprised Mrs Hudson.

"I thought you fancied him, dear," she said, speaking more bluntly than usual – Molly was a touch too far gone for subtleties. On the plus side, she'd drunkenly stumbled into the reason for Mrs Hudson's current machinations. Molly was a nice girl but she was lonely, except for that cat of hers. There'd been a Jim but he was long gone and John had told her he'd been a bit of a trouble maker. But there had to be someone else, someone Molly wouldn't mind going home to.

"I used to. And I like his brain, but he's… I spend all day around cold bodies, I want something warm at night," she said a little wistfully.

Mrs Hudson smiled at that. "There's a lot to be said for that, dear. Before he turned out to be a murderer, my husband was like that – cold and distant, always dashing about." She leaned in a low whisper. "That's why I found me a bit on the side when he was away, which was a lot. Looked not unlike Dr Watson, actually. Bit darker, though."

"Mmm, he's warm," Molly agreed. "Dr Watson's all gold _and_ sunshine and warm and honey … mmm, honey," She giggled. "Does he taste like honey? Would he _like_ to taste like honey?" she mused.

"Mmmm, can't say dear, but careful with the honey, it sticks _everywhere._ "

The women exchanged a look that set them both off. Once they’d calmed down a bit and Mrs Hudson topped up Molly's glass, they continued.

"I must say that having Sherlock renting the flat upstairs has done wonders for the scenery around here," Mrs Hudson's eyes twinkled a bit. "Sherlock's very striking, even if he's a bit cold. And Dr. Watson, well, he's got that look about him, doesn't he dear?"

"Mmm. That look that says 'I'm a doctor and I've got wonderful lovely little hands'?" Molly asked, giving a delightful wriggle.

"That very one! Mr Hudson was a tall one, but my Eliot, well he wasn't any taller than I am. I've found that shorter men are… well it's like they've got something to prove, isn't it? "

"He can prove it to me any time!" Molly finished off her glass.

"And what about that nice copper, Lestrade? Does he have a first name, dear?"

Sherlock was out, Dr Watson was a possibility, and there was that detective inspector who came round to yell at Sherlock sometimes. Since being assured that she and her herbal soothers were safe, she'd decided she quite liked him, even when he rowed with Sherlock over drugs busts.

"Ooooh. S'not copper – he's _silver_ ," Molly declared with a suddenly hungry look as her glass was filled again. "Greg… Never looks at me. Not like that. Even John looks sometimes. Not Greg, not ever. But he's so handsome. Better than John. And he doesn't belong to Sherlock, not the same way. Maybe if he'll look at me, I could have a bit of him. But he's got wife, no. I'm not that girl. I'm not Sgt Donovan, chasing after married men, or letting myself be chased. I'm better than that. Maybe not much better but I'm not a home-wrecker. Not that-"

Her mind finally processed some of what Mrs Hudson said earlier.

"Not that, there's nothing wrong with you, Mrs Hudson! You and your other man. It was different back then, wasn't it? Women had to be married, men didn't; women didn't have choices like they do now. And they don't have many even… My family didn't like that I became a doctor. They thought I was going to school to **meet** one, not be one. But it's different now.

"I can be whatever I want, and I can have whoever I want. Maybe I'll ask Greg out, instead of waiting for him to see me! He's divorced now, I think. Doesn't wear a ring anymore!" she declared with a nod that set her swaying. "He's got such a lovely voice, Greg does. We talk over the bodies sometimes, when Sherlock's going on, but he doesn't see me, doesn't look at me like that, like I'm a woman. Keeps his eyes on mine, never looks at the rest. Doesn't ever notice if I wear lipstick. Even Sherlock notices that! But then Sherlock notices...."

Mrs Hudson waited for more but realized the girl had fallen asleep. She pondered what to do for a moment – that chair is not a cosy one to sleep in, as she knows. And whilst Her Boys are the logical choice to help her to the guest room at the back of her flat, she decided to make another call.

She remembered Molly in that pretty dress at Christmas and someone who looked at her like she was very, very much a woman. And even gay men noticed a woman besides her eyes – Greg must have to work very hard to keep his eyes from wondering. Such a good man.

She knew it was late, but she also knows the way things work around here. She dialled a number she'd been given some time ago but seldom calls – usually only to make sure Her Boys are still alive when they've not been home for days.

She smiles at the answer – he does have quite a lovely voice. "Detective Inspector Lestrade, I believe I need your help with something," she said in her best sweet old lady voice.


	2. Chapter 2

"Mrs Hudson?" Greg pushed himself to sit up, sleep fading from his mind. "Is everything alright?" There was only one reason he could think of that she'd call. And she'd never make that call at – he glanced at the clock and groaned inwardly – two in the morning.

"Oh, yes, dear; everything's fine. It's just, I er… I need a bit of help. Normally I'd ask Sherlock but he's in a mood and John is visiting his sister this weekend..."

"Which probably explains Sherlock's mood Can it wait until morning?" He was trying to be as polite as he could at this hour.

"I don't think so, see there's someone here -"

That woke Greg right up. "What happened?" He sounded a bit sharper than he'd meant to. If there was someone there, and she still talked normally it meant… she wouldn't have… would she?

"Oh, just a friend of mine's had a bit too much to drink, dear." Her voice was reassuring, realizing she'd alarmed him unnecessarily.

"I see." He really didn't, not yet. But he was awake now. He'd gotten three hours, that was sometimes enough.

"You see I haven't any guest rooms, and she's a bit too heavy for me to put into a cab. And I don't know her address – I thought you might. Molly, er, Molly Hooper?"

He knows Molly alright. And from the sound of it, he'd soon be dealing with a rather drunk Molly. "Yeah, I know her. Are you sure there's nowhere to put her there?" He wasn't sure he was strong enough to face a drunk and vulnerable Molly. "Maybe Sherlock's calmed–"

His words were interrupted by a muffled explosion on Baker street that even he could hear. Only the slightly less audible tirade of curses convinced him that Sherlock wasn't dead. Or sleeping.

"Alright," he said as he stood. "I'll be over there as soon as I can, you go make sure he doesn't need an ambulance, alright?"

Mrs Hudson agreed and they hung up.

Knowing he might be running into Sherlock and then running _after_ Sherlock, he took a quick shower and changed into (relatively) fresh clothes before grabbing his keys, wallet and warrant card. He didn't normally bother taking his car unless he was going out of the city or to work, but at this hour he didn't expect a lot of traffic on Baker Street.

Drunk Molly. _Fuck_. He still recalled with annoying clarity that Christmas party that John had thrown. He'd known Molly before, was vaguely aware of her as a sweet, shy girl who was rather devoted to Sherlock. A devotion it had annoyed him to see went unreturned and yet exploited by the man. She's also very good at her job, quick and efficient, and could usually follow Sherlock's logic when he asked for seemingly illogical tests.

At the party, he'd taken one look at her in that dress and suddenly reconciling with his wife didn't seem quite so important. Add to the revelation of her (continued) infidelity and he'd finally given up and filed for divorce. Stopped wearing his ring, as well. If he could feel like that for another woman he had no business being married.

The months following had been a special kind of hell. He'd been careful around Molly, keeping his eyes locked on her face. If Sherlock had even the tiniest inkling that he was interested, he'd make Greg's life miserable. And probably ruin any chances he had with Molly. He kept wanting to ask her out but she still seemed to be under Sherlock's spell.

And now she was drunk, and he'd somehow become the General Handler for All Things 221 Baker Street.

He pulled up at 221 and climbed out. The absence of ambulance, fire or official police vehicles assured him that the explosion had been minor – He'd be hearing about it from John, he was sure. Or the damage it had caused, anyway. He tapped the knocker and Mrs Hudson let him in a moment later.

"Thank you for coming by, dear." She was in a robe, tightly belted around a pink nightie.

"It's alright. How's Molly?" He asked, then cringed – should've called her Dr. Hooper. Keep a distance, professional.

"She's a bit awake but… well; you know how people are when they drink. She gets chatty."

He followed Mrs Hudson into the flat, surprised that it didn't remind him of his grandmother's house – there were some knick-knacks but a reasonable number of them, the place looks cosy without screaming old lady.

Molly was asleep on one of the chairs in a sitting room. On the table before her was a tea set and a rather pretty pink bottle with arabic looking script. The bottle looked like something out of _Alice and Wonderland_ and he almost expected the squiggly writing to coalesce into "Drink Me" if he looked hard enough.

He picked the bottle up and took a sniff. Sweet, and he could smell the alcohol under it. "Doesn't seem your sort of drink, Mrs Hudson," he commented quietly.

She gave a vague wave of her hand. "It was all I had left. Sherlock usually takes what he needs for his experiments, but that was a gift and I wouldn’t let him have it. Besides, I know Molly likes sweet things."

"Right… maybe a bit too much. How about you?" He was still keeping an eye on Molly but he didn't want to leave a soused old lady either. Especially not this particular old lady. Greg could still recall what happened to the last person to dare harm Mrs Hudson.

"Oh, I'm fine, dear!" She assured him. "Don't tell Dr Watson but I prefer Drambuie."

"Never pegged you for a drinker," he admitted just as Molly began to stir a little.

"Mrs Hudson?" Molly sounded adorably sleepy, rather than sopping drunk. "Oh!" She'd caught sight of Greg and tried to sit up, resulting in a sway. She closed her eyes and giggled.

"Molly," Greg reached for her shoulder. "I've come to take you home." His voice was firm, but kind.

"Nooo," She giggled. "I'm not that drunk yet, gimme a few more," she reached for the teacup still half full of red liquid.

"Ah-ah, no more for you," He caught her hands, trying not to feel how warm they were against his. "Come on, Molly-girl, let's get you up. Her purse, Mrs Hudson?" He moved close, drawing one of Molly's arms around his neck and sliding his arm around her waist. _Mistake_ , his brain warned but it was too late – he was already wrapped up in her scent. Apple blossoms.

Molly giggled and wrapped her free arm around him once she was upright. "Mmm, Greg," she purred, her eyes half closed as she pressed her nose to his neck.

Mrs Hudson appeared with her purse and with her help Greg slid it up his arm to his shoulder.

"Gonna take me home?" Molly asked, with a low giggle, swaying against him in a way that made him keenly aware of her.

"You need to sleep, Molly-girl."

Her arms suddenly went slack and he scooped her up, one arm around her back, one under her legs, cradling her to his chest. Mrs Hudson helpfully tucked Molly's arm up into her lap, the palm pressed to Greg's chest.

Breathing through his mouth, Greg carried her out to his car, tucking her carefully into the front passenger seat. He found himself remarkably glad she was in pants when he reached around to buckle her in. Odds are a skirt would have ridden up by now.

As he was belting her in place, she stirred again. Seeing him she gave a too-broad smile and her hand flopped up. "Lovely, lovely hair," she said, slender fingers combing through his hair, before falling to her lap.

Greg chuckled at that. It was nice that she'd noticed – not that he agreed but it was still nice he wasn't just Detective Inspector Lestrade to her, even if she was drunk. "You sleep, Molly-girl," he said. "I'll take care of you," he promised, assured as he was that she was fast asleep again.

He was half way to his own flat when he realized he didn't even know where hers was. He didn't pull over to check her purse, either. She was drunk – she'd need someone to watch her, he justified. Better to do it at his own place – at least he could get in. She might have a doorman or a flatmate or something.

Luckily, Lestrade didn't have a doorman and his place was on the ground floor.

After pulling into his usual space, he rounded bonnet and leaned down to unbuckle Molly, who seemed to be still sleeping. "Come on, Molly-girl." He gently shook her to see if she'd rouse. She just made a sleepy noise and burrowed deeper into her seat. Steeling himself once again, he bent and carefully lifted her from the seat, minding her head as he cradled her in his arms.

Getting her across the lot and into onto the stoop was easy, then he had to get the door unlocked.

"Molly-girl," he said softly, giving her another shake. "Need you to wake up a bit for me."

"Dun wanna." She kept her eyes closed, and one arm flopped up to wrap around his neck. "F'I wake up you'll go 'way," she murmured against his shoulder.

Greg ached at the words, trying to remind himself that she was drunk and didn’t know – couldn't mean – what she was saying. "It's okay, Molly-girl. I'll be here when you wake up."

"Okay." It was a bit more slurred and softer than usual, but that was Molly. He felt her rouse and carefully dipped a little, setting her on her feet while keeping one arm around her waist. Her own arms slid round him and she burrowed into his chest. "Smell nice," she whispered as Greg fished out his keys.

Given how nuzzle-y she was, Greg was insanely grateful he'd showered before coming over. Otherwise, he would've no doubt smelled like a combination of sweat and dirt that came from chasing criminals around the city.

With Molly a bit more mobile – if only a bit – he managed to get her into his flat. He lowered her purse fall to the floor, then tried to divest Molly of her jacket.

"Ohh, getting' bold, Greg," Molly giggled and gave his shoulder a weak push. "Gotta buy me dinner first." Her face was flushed and her eyes merry and a bit unfocused. Her lips were pink and inviting and she was drunk, drunk, _DRUNK_!

Greg repeated that last word in his head for a moment to remind himself of why he couldn't kiss her.

"I'm just getting your jacket off, Molly-girl," he assured her. "I'm not trying to get fresh."

"Why not?" Molly was actually pouting, her hands coming to rest lightly on his chest as she looked up at him.

"Because you're drunk, Molly-girl," he said quietly.

"Why do you call me that?" Her fingers toyed with the buttons on his shirt.

Greg blinked at the question. "Call you what?"

"Molly-girl," she said, finally worrying one button through its eye, She gave a satisfied smile as if she'd worked out some tricky puzzle, fingers drifting down to the next one.

Greg reached to stop her, his hand closing around her fingers. He hadn't even realized he'd been calling her that. It just seemed right. "Don't know," he admitted quietly. "Do you mind?" He shouldn't be asking, he knew he shouldn't.

"No. No one else calls me that. Everyone who doesn't call me Molly or Mary calls me Mols," She grimaced. "I like Molly-girl," she assured him, leaning forward to nuzzle his chest.

"Alright then," Greg said, knowing if he didn't get her into bed and get away soon, he wouldn't manage it. Deciding she could sleep in her jacket, he nudged her to lean against him even more, drawing her away from the wall. "Let's get you laid down," He carefully avoided saying 'to bed' even as he decided that his couch wasn't suitable for her. One of the cushions is lumpy and the other has two broken springs underneath.

Molly drifted off – or passed out – again at some point and he had to carry her once more. It made it easier to set her on the unmade bed – he could all too easily imagine a slightly amorous Molly as he tried to urge her to lay down. He then carefully removed her shoes, setting them beside his nightstand, ignoring how nice they looked there. He drew the covers up and she burrowed under them, a sleepy smile coming to her face and she let out a happy sigh.

He didn't want to leave her alone, and whilst she didn't seem _incredibly_ drunk, he wasn't taking any chances. He pulled off his own jacket and shoes, and lay over top of the covers on the other side of his bed, glad he'd opted for a double when he had to buy a new one after his divorce. He kept to his side and set his phone on the bedside table to wake him in an hour, to check on Molly. Then he forced himself to sleep, not letting himself think about the woman in bed beside him.


End file.
